


Brevity of One's Life

by PickledTeeth



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Meetings, Awkward everything honestly, Awkwardness, Blossoming Romance, Chapter number may change, Gun fights, It's Arthur fucking Morgan, M/M, Slow Build, Swearing, Train Robberies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickledTeeth/pseuds/PickledTeeth
Summary: Man is the only animal whose desires increase as they are fed; the only animal that is never satisfied - Henry George------------Arthur did not think he'd see Albert Mason on the train he was currently robbing.  Yet here the man was, sitting and clutching his belongings with white knuckled hands, looking absolutely terrified.------------Arthur encounters Albert for a sixth time.





	1. Hands Up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my second favourite ship after Kieran and Arthur, so I figured it was about time I wrote something about them!  
> Hope you guys enjoy, comments and kudos are very much appreciated.

The air was chilly when Arthur woke up that morning, a frost settling on his bones.  Cold enough that Arthur could see his breath cloud through his bandana, much like the smoke billowing from the train smokestack. The train was rounding the corner, chugging along with slight clicks and churrs from the wheels. The fog makes it hard to see where exactly the train body is, but the light shining from the front pierces the soft grey and lights up the railway in front.   

His horse prances underneath him with heavy breaths of irritation.  The soft thuds of his heavy hooves are barely heard over the occasional sharp whistle of the fast approaching train. 

"You sure we can handle this?" John asks with a sort of apprehensive tone.  His hands tighten around Old Boy's reigns with what Arthur can only guess is nerves, hands shaking just slightly with white knuckles holding the leather in a death grip.  Old Boy seems to sense this and tosses his head.

"'Course. Only a few guards." Arthur says smoothly, confidently, though his heart rages in his chest.  Every robbery was different. 

"Let me rephrase Arthur. Are you sure Sean and Bill can handle this?"

Arthur subconsciously focuses his attention on the small patch of bush Bill and Sean hid in.  A flash of silver from a gun, and a horse head reaching down to tear at flowers is the only sign that the two are actually there.

It was not Arthur's decision to take Sean.  The man had seen Arthur packing up for a robbery and demanded to be taken along, saying he needed to prove himself after the whole blunder of getting captured by Pinkertons.  Bill had scoffed an ears-length away as he'd stowed away a shotgun on his horse's saddle, and Arthur had exchanged glances with John. 

Couldn't really say no; Sean would've followed them there and forced himself into the robbery.

Arthur somewhat shrugs in response to John's words, ears filling with the sound of wheels grinding against track.

"Let's hope so."

The train rumbles closer, the sound like thunder over dry plains.  The smooth material of Arthur's bandana slides over his lips as he breathes in to steady his racing heart, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." John nods towards the fast approaching train, "Sure we can't do this tonight?"

Arthur shakes his head, "Won't leave station for awhile.  This is our only chance."

That is true.  A very disgruntled worker had told him that the train is carrying important people, _rich_ people, and that the train would wait for them to get back to the station.  That would have taken a few days. 

John shifts in his saddle, the leather cracking under the weight. 

"If you say so."

The train speeds past with a deafening roar of its engine.  The wind whips at both Arthur and John's face, almost slapping their hats off their heads.  Arthur grips his in a tight hand and Arthur's horse rears slightly, whites of his eyes flashing, black mane tossing.

Arthur's voice would've been stolen away by the loud screeching engine of the train if he tried to comfort the stallion. 

Over the roaring and the booming of wheels against track, the air turned alive with faint pops of gunfire and shouts of surprise.  That would be Sean and Bill, right on cue.  Arthur nods to John, and the younger man kicks Old Boy hard into a gallop towards the front of the train.  Arthur's horse fights the reigns as he turns the giant's head to the front, spurs digging into the horse's ribs.  He huffs in irritation, begrudgingly moving his legs in slow circles. 

"C'mon Bailey."

The train is moving faster than the horse, and the passenger cart he's racing is slowly gaining ground.  The bay shire doesn't seem to want to go faster than he already is, keeping a steady rocking pace.  Arthur grits his teeth. 

Arthur kicks his feet out of the stirrups and grabs the saddlehorn, cursing under his breath.  The stallion's gait is about as rocky as a boat on water, rolling and smooth. 

Out of all the horses, he just _had_ to pick the laziest one.  Bailey grunts with every step, the stallion not even breaking a mild sweat.

He slowly gathers his legs underneath him, keeping a hand on the horn for balance.  The saddle is slippery with morning dew, and Bailey's gait doesn't seem to be helping his balance, but he manages to sit in a crouched position. His knees jut out awkwardly from the position, shoes barely clinging onto the leather underneath.

Eyes scanning for somewhere to jump onto, he spots the top of another passenger cart slowly crawling forwards. There's a tiny lip on the top he can grab onto. A smooth metal ridge that hugged the edge of the train was really the only thing he could grab on to.   

...It'll have to do. 

Arthur jumps for it, landing against the side of the cart with a heavy whump.  His hands catch the smooth ridge, though there's barely anything to hold onto. He's pretty sure his fingers are going to slip with the way his fingers barely cling on.  Heart pounding, his feet scramble against the windows.  His toe catches on a windowsill, barely there, but enough to get a leverage.  The sill bows under his weight like paper, and it groans. 

Arthur hauls himself up onto the roof with a grunt, the thin metal cracking under his weight.  Screams erupt from the cart below, and Arthur's fairly sure he is going to break through.  The roof is like tin. 

Arthur scans the surrounding area with a critical eye; one would suspect a man standing on a roof of a train cart would be searching for lawmen or passerby's.  In this case, however, he looks to see if anyone saw his recent blunder. 

Sean and Bill are busy dealing with the guards near the back, picking them off one by one.  John has disappeared into the front, guns drawn, ready to deal with the train conductor. 

Nobody saw.

Bailey whinnies, and takes off in the opposite direction of the train. It's not long before the big stallion reaches his head down to pick at grass.  

Arthur sighs at the horse, dusts his pants off and starts walking along the train cart. It cracks almost every time he places a foot down, bowing under his weight, threatening to send him careening down into the cart of passengers below. 

The wind gusts at his face with such an intensity that Arthur believes he is going to fall off at any second. It's not like he has any traction on the slippery metal surface. With a hand on his hat, Arthur jumps down into the space between the carts, landing heavily on the grated metal.

A guard standing in the middle of the aisle shouts wordlessly at Arthur and fumbles to aim his gun.  Arthur shoots his own between the guard's eyes, and he falls dead to the floor.  A few ladies scream in terror at the gush of blood pouring from the man's head.  One man faints at the sight, skin a ghastly white.  Arthur holsters his still smoking gun, keeping the other out for any needed leverage.   

Before any words escape his lips, the train screeches to a stop with a horrendous squeal of metal against metal.  The momentum almost knocks Arthur clean off his feet, but he manages to stay upright with a hand against the doorway. The passengers are not so lucky as their bodies bend forwards, foreheads almost touching the seat in front of them.  Gasps and yelps sound throughout the cart. A woman screams.

The train's wheels squeal against the track and sparks appear in front of the cart's windows in a shower of gold.  A second later, the train stops completely, gears hissing, steam rising from the wheels. 

It's quiet for a moment, Arthur's heart raging in his chest, a single fleeting thought of _wow John actually did his job_ racing through his mind. The passengers straighten slowly; some had their eyes glazed over in a daze, others held onto their belongings possessively. 

"Alright folks-" Arthur begins.  The people gape at him in fear. 

"-We're gonna do this nice and simple now."

Heavy rushing footsteps sound from behind Arthur.  He turns with his guns drawn and ready to fire.  It's John, burlap sack slung over his shoulder looking as though there was something already inside. 

"Found a few things in the luggage." John says, opening it up to show off a few pieces of flashy jewellery, money clips, and other valuable things they could sell, "Already got a few carts up front. Didn't really have much on em though."

The jewellery clinks together as he slings it back over his shoulder.   

Arthur nods in approval, before jabbing his thumb towards the passengers, "We ain't got all day now. Word'll get out that the train ain't arriving on time, and then we'll have the law breathing down our necks." 

John nods, and takes a heavy step into the cart beside Arthur, brandishing both burlap sack and gun.

"In the bag! Everythin you got!"  

A few people in the front seats eagerly oblige.  Their faces were as white as the moon as they dump money clips and necklaces, rings, earrings, anything of value into the patchy looking bag. 

Arthur kept by the doorway in case anyone tried to flee.  His fingers tap absentmindedly against his holstered weapon.

Everything went smoothly; everyone willing to give up their possessions in fear of their lives.  The last row is a little more stubborn.  The two people out of three people sitting down shove their valuables at John, but there is one who's a bit more unwilling.  Arthur was staring out the window, searching for any lawmen sneaking up on them when the familiar voice rings out in the cart.

"I-I don't have anything sir!" The man squeaks suddenly.  It pierces through his focus, and immediately Arthur recognizes the voice. His heart drops to his feet.   

 …Oh Lord not _him_.

"I don't care mister." John growls, and he grabs the man's shirt collar roughly.  The bag hits the floor with a sharp _chunk_ , as John's other hand brings his gun up to the man's chin. He yelps in fright, but he does not hand anything over to John.  Arthur rushes over, brain denying that it is _him_ sitting on this specific train they're currently robbing.

The clothes, hat, and the big chunky camera sitting beside him made Arthur wonder how he didn't see the man in the first place.  He peers closer, and sure enough its Albert, eyes glazed over with fear and sweating like a racehorse. 

Arthur certainly did not think he'd see Albert Mason on the train he was robbing, yet here the man was, clutching his belongings as best as he could and looking absolutely terrified for his life. 

"Friend-" Arthur starts, voice light and cracking.  He clears his throat and John glances to him. "I'll deal with him. You head onto the other carts."

John's eyes crinkle in confusion, but Albert looks even more petrified at the thought of being at the mercy of such a brute. Finally, John sighs and lets Albert down onto his seat non-to-gently and gathers his burlap sack. 

"Have fun, _friend_." John throws over his shoulder as he steps into the other cart, "Alright, y'know the drill!"

Arthur turns back to Albert, who squeezes himself into the corner where the seat and wall meet.  Tries to make himself look smaller.  Pity stings Arthur's heart, though he does not show it. 

"Alright everyone, off the train." Arthur orders.  Nobody dares make a move.  They all watch him with eyes as wide as saucers.  Arthur growls and grabs his gun.

"I said _off the train_."

That seems to get through everyone's skull.  They hurry out of their seats, shuffling past through the doorway, being mindful to not step on the freshly dead corpse laying in the middle of the aisle. A few people shoot a scowl at Arthur, though they quickly turn their gaze the other way when he catches their eye.

Albert goes to get up, but Arthur pushes him back down with a rough hand to the shoulder.

"Not you."

Albert gulps, his eyes flickering to watch the last few people trudge out of the cart.  When the last skirt swishes out of view, Albert clears his throat nervously.

"W-what do you plan on doing with me?"

Arthur doesn't say anything and only pulls down his bandana, lets it pool around his neck. 

His brain is shouting at him that this was a bad idea, but he ignores it. 

Albert's eyes widen considerably.

"Mr. Morgan!?" Albert all but shrieks Arthur's name.  His arms loosen around his bag he had clutched so tightly to his chest just mere moments before, a smile peeling at his face.

"What in the blazes are you doing here?"

A hand sticks out to be shaken in greeting, and Arthur hesitates to both answer and take his hand. 

It's a nervous, breathy question, one which Arthur is surprised he asked.  He eventually clasps Albert's trembling hand and shakes slowly.

"Robbing you apparently."

Albert's smile falls quickly, and he glances to the guard Arthur shot.  His eyes linger on the corpse for longer than needed before he turns back to Arthur. 

"Yes, well, you didn't. I still have both my life and possessions."

Arthur notices Albert's bag is a little less full from the last he'd seen him with the eagles.  His camera is still in one piece, which is surprising, though a few scratches and nicks cover the nimble legs holding it up. Most likely from bramble bushes and thorns, but some looks as though a tiny animal had been gnawing to see if the device was indeed food. It's Arthur's turn to clear his throat.

"So...uh...photographin anything dangerous?" The word 'photographing' is foreign on his tongue, but he manages to mumble around it. 

Albert looks surprised at his question. 

"No, not entirely, not unless rabbits have developed a certain taste for human flesh." He swallows, and his eyes dart again to the body laying on the ground, colour draining from his face. Arthur barely hears him mumble, "Nice man he was. He said he was saving up money to take his fiancé on a nice trip to Paris."

A small pang of guilt shoots Arthur in the chest, though he quickly squishes it down.  This was a robbery. Things happen. 

It's deathly quiet in the empty cart; Arthur can hear John shouting in the background for people to give up their money, and could hear Bill and Sean stomping around in one of the train's luggage cart located near the back. 

His brain urges him to say something to break the thin ice of silence that fell upon them.  Problem is, Arthur has no idea what to say. 

"Can't really say sorry now...the man's dead."

...Arthur feels stupid. 

To his surprise, Albert does not turn to him in disgust.

"I suppose it really was kill or be killed." He says gloomily, eyes flashing with an emotion Arthur cannot quite distinguish.  Albert takes a breath in and goes to get up.

"Now if you don't mind, I must really get going." There's a curtness to his words, short and to the point.  He gathers his belongings hurriedly, keeping his eyes on the task at hand, "Looks as though I have a long walk ahead of me today."

"Listen, Mr. Mason-"

Arthur is cut off by the sound of shouting, vigorous angry shouting, which could only indicate one thing.

The law had arrived.

Guns popping off bullets one by one pierces through the air. Albert ducks immediately down. Arthur, however, draws his guns out and clicks their hammers back.  The distinguishable sound of horse hooves galloping away fades to the distance, and for a moment, there's a silence again. 

A tense one. 

Albert slowly stands up, body visibly shaking, eyes darting from window to window.

"What was that?"

Arthur sees a flash of a hat running towards the train through the window.

"Company."

Arthur squeezes himself between the seats on the opposite side of Albert.  Albert remains standing, confused.  A gun tossed to his hands makes him snap out of his stupor, and he fumbles to catch it.  The way he stares down at the pistol in his hands almost makes Arthur laugh.

"What do you want me to do with _this_?" Albert nearly shrieks. Arthur hisses at him to be quieter.

"They may think you were helping us with this robbery."

Albert's face falls. His eyes flick to the silver pistol resting heavy in his palm and he shakes his head furiously.

"No no no no no. They might think I'm a prisoner. A hostage." He says hysterically, walking to the middle of the aisle to hand Arthur back his gun. He stops when Arthur slices his hand through the air in a gesture of _don't move_.

"Mr. Mason, get back to where you were and hide. I'll deal with them." Arthur whispers harshly.  He can hear the footsteps from the other carts starting to approach. 

But Albert doesn't move.  Instead, he looks angry. 

"You mean you're going to kill them?"

"...Yes." 

Arthur doesn't know why he paused so long, waited so long to answer. 

Albert obviously seems bothered, and his breathing picks up tenfold.  He still doesn't move. 

Arthur is just about ready to shove Albert back into his seat when another voice joins them.

"You! Stop right there!" The man commands shrilly.  Arthur remains hidden.  Albert freezes. 

The man is dressed in a long trench coat that almost reaches his ankles.  He wears a mustache that covers half his face in a rather comical way, and his eyebrows are bushy and thick.

"M-me?" Albert stammers.  He points to himself, and the man scoffs, raising his shotgun to Albert's head.

"Yes you! Now drop your gun!"

Albert does so immediately and it clangs harshly on the floor.  Arthur winces at the fresh chip in the handle. 

"Yo-You're mistaken! I am not the man you are looking for!" Albert looks as though he's about to sell Arthur out.  Arthur tenses and prepares to fight.  Albert seems conflicted as his eyes dart to Arthur's hiding place, mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish.

No words come out.

The lawman sneers and slowly approaches, back hunched and face twisted in a glare.

"Sure you're not. I oughta kill you for all the trouble you and yer friends caused."

Arthur can hear Albert audibly gulp at those words.  Arthur's body goes rigid, and he's prepared to spring out to save Albert from his impending doom.  The lawman doesn't squeeze the shotgun's trigger.

Both Arthur and Albert give a short sigh in relief. 

"I'll let the judge decide your fate _after_ you tell us where your gang took them peoples things."

"I-I'm not-I'm not someone who'd  _rob_ a train!" Albert stumbles over his words frantically, "Do I really look like someone who'd magically decide to rob innocent people for money? No sir, I am not!"

Arthur scrubs his face at Arthur's nervous jabbering.

"Shut up!" The lawman shouts, pumping his shotgun in a sort of threat.  Albert jumps at the sudden noise.

"Yes sir! Shutting up!"

The lawman comes closer.

"We're gonna do this nice and easy, and you're not gonna do anything, else I pump this lead into your body, understand?"

"Perfectly. Crystal clear!"

As soon as the lawman reaches out to grab Albert's thin wrist, Arthur springs up onto his feet.  In a flash, the man's body slumps to the floor with a heavy thud, shotgun clanging beside him.

It's quiet for a moment.  Arthur shuffles around both Albert and the body to grab Albert's things. He stoops down to grab his fallen pistol first, thumb rubbing over the shallow chip.

Albert remains stock-still, shock etched on his face, jaw dropped.

"Look what you just did." He says in disbelief.  Blood drools out of the circular wound in lawman's forehead, and Albert looks sick.

Arthur doesn't say anything and shoves Albert's bag into his arms.  He barely clutches it, limbs slack.  Arthur carries the camera piece in one hand with the legs in the other as he peers around the doorway. 

"I can't believe what you've just did!"

Albert finally seems to realize what is going on as Arthur grabs a fistful of his vest and drags him to the door. There's shouting and rushing footsteps approaching the cart.

"We're gonna have to make a run for it." Arthur says, legs tensing.  There's a set of trees right beside the train where they could loose the lawmen in.  Albert pries Arthur's hand off his vest.

"Why would I go?! They'll think I'm with you!"

Arthur steps out on the grated space between the train carts and peeks out around the cart.  Nobody is there. The shouting proves that the lawmen have not left and are instead running through the copious amounts of train carts to get to them.  Judging by how many footfalls there are, Arthur guesses that there's about six of them.

"Mr. Mason, if one already thought you were with me, then the rest will too."

In fairness, Arthur did give Albert a gun to protect himself with, but the lawman skimmed over that detail and instead jumped straight to the conclusion that Albert was indeed robbing the train. 

"There they are!" An angry gruff voice shrieks, and the air is immediately crackling with gunfire.  Arthur shoves Albert off the train, and he lands clumsily onto the ground.  The bullets pepper the doorway, metal bending and ringing sharply at the impact.  Arthur barely jumps down in time to miss a bullet straight for his head. 

Arthur grabs the back of Albert's vest and practically forces him into the thick forest.  Arthur can hear the lawmen's boots thudding against the ground as they give chase.  Not long after, bullets are firing into the surrounding trees and bushes, sending bark flying. 

Arthur manages to whistle for Bailey, and he hopes the lazy stallion can hear him. 

Albert pants heavily beside him and Arthur thinks of dropping both the camera and him to save himself from the law. 

But he wouldn't do that.

Instead, he hauls Albert along more hurriedly.  He can tell the other man is on the verge of a panic attack, especially when a bullet narrowly misses his arm. 

There's a whinny, sharp and shrill, and Arthur thinks the lawmen are chasing them down with horses.  When he turns, he sees the big dopey face of Bailey, a piece of grass sticking out from his mouth.  He wastes no time in hauling Albert onto Bailey's back, and he jumps on right after, kicking the stallion in the guts quick and sharp. 

The horse grunts and actually goes faster than he did with the train. Fueled by panic, Bailey seemed to have a purpose. 

Arthur can feel deft, shaking fingers crawl around his waist to hang on.  Nervous, unsure. 

They don't speak; he can practically feel the fear radiating off of Albert.  The camera is still tucked under his arm, slipping every so slowly down his arm.  He worries he may drop it. 

The sound of bullets and shouting fade away as Bailey gains more ground, hooves thudding heavily against the grassy plains. 

They ride in silence for a few minutes until Arthur is sure they've lost their followers.  Arthur slows Bailey down just in front of a small creek, and the horse immediately dips his head down to drink greedily.  Only then does Albert speak.

"That was positively frightening." He says, voice shaky.  He slips down Bailey's side, looking dazed on his feet.  Arthur jumps down beside him.

Bailey's slurping and heavy breathing fills _another_ silence between them.  Arthur clears his throat and untucks the camera from under his arm. He holds it out. 

There's a large hole in the middle, smack dab right through the glass of the poor device.  It's mangled, dead. Toast.

Albert takes it gently.

"I think it's best if you...stick around me for a little while." Arthur says awkwardly, watching as Albert inspects the damage by trailing his fingers around the edge of the hole. 

He sighs sadly.

"Wouldn't dream of anything else."


	2. Impromptu Roadtrips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet another chapter.  
> Enjoy and thanks to everyone who left a comment and kudos!

Arthur Morgan did not think he would be sharing a saddle with Albert Mason ever in his life.  Granted, there could've been the odd emergency every time Albert snapped pictures of dangerous animals that needed quick thinking, quick action. 

This was not that.

Albert's deft fingers barely cling to his waist.  He's been silent the entire time, broken camera still tucked under his arm, still practically falling apart at Bailey's slow walking gait. Albert didn't seem upset, but Arthur knew better.  Shooting the guard and lawmen bothered Albert greatly, and Arthur knew Albert well enough to know that the man liked to talk about anything. 

Silence meant anger. 

Bailey grunts and huffs with every step, upset at the prospect of carrying two people.  The bay shire's hooves clop along the red dusty trail, the afternoon sun shining down on them with an unforgiving heat. Arthur has to reach up to unstick his shirt from his skin.   Crows caw and circle something in the tall brown grass, vultures watching on a dead tree nearby. Flies buzz and mosquitos hover. 

The Lemoyne forests are dead as per usual, not even a single rider as far as the eye can see.  The air practically crackles with the promise of a thunderstorm later; Arthur can already see white popcorn clouds forming in the distance. 

"If you do not mind me asking-" Albert speaks, breaking the tense silence throughout the Lemoyne forest. His cheery voice is no longer there, rather hidden underneath a wall of irritability, "Where are we going?"

Bailey's tail flicks a buzzing fly on his rump and accidently smacks Albert in the face. Maybe it's because he's scared, maybe it's because he's on edge, but a yelp of surprise resounding from him.  Arthur barely catches the gangly man by his arm before he goes tumbling straight down Bailey's side. 

"Away from the law." Arthur grunts, pulling Albert back behind him.  The man's face is beet red from the whole experience.  Flustered maybe. 

"Of course we are." Albert huffs, a touch of embarrassment clouding his voice. He repositions the camera under his arm, "Would you mind dropping me off in Rhodes?"

He's short and curt. Arthur thinks its rather funny. 

"Don't think they'd take to kindly to the man who just robbed a train walking into town."

"But I _didn't_." Albert stresses, sounding exasperated.  Arthur snorts.

"Those lawmen who're chasin us? They saw you with me. It'd be safe to guess that they went back to Rhodes and reported the both of us to the Sheriff." Arthur twists to look over his shoulder at Albert, who is quite positively white in the face, "You'd be shot 'fore you'd get into town."

Albert swallows as Arthur turns back to the front.  

"Lovely. I'm stuck with you for god knows how long. A well-known criminal. Or should I say murderer, _Mr. Morgan_."

Arthur is mildly surprised at Albert's venomous, nervous tone.  So much so that he barks a laugh. It echoes throughout the stretch of forest they were passing through, absolutely teeming with birds. The sun is blocked out by the thick trees, creating a shadow over the two riders. It feels nice after being in the hot heat of the unforgiving sun. 

"You're more than welcome to strike out on your own, Mr. Mason. Don't need me babysittin you, after all."

Albert goes silent. His hand around Arthur's waist tightens as though he were thinking of forming a fist and clocking Arthur in the back of the head. Arthur kind of expects it. 

"Wouldn't do you much good though. You don't even have a horse-"  

"Fine."

Albert slides off Bailey's rump and the horse snorts in pleasant surprise at having to now haul one person. Bailey stops dead in his tracks and swings his head around to watch Albert stick the camera's legs underneath his arm, grab the bag from Arthur's saddle and turn away. He almost drops both camera and tripod after swinging the bag down, but manages to regain composure. 

"Farewell Mr. Morgan." Albert says tersely. Arthur can only watch in what can only be described as 'dumbfounded' (he has no idea what that means, Mary-Beth said the word suddenly one evening) as Albert trudges away towards an open field cupped by dark forest and tall trees.  A herd of deer raise their heads at the sudden movements and spring away with leaping nimble legs.   Albert practically trips over a rock, or nothing, Arthur honestly cannot see what he tripped over through the tall grass and flowers.  He stumbles a few feet, almost completely teetering over, but regains his balance.  Albert looks to see if Arthur is still there (and he is, trying very _very_ hard not to laugh) and keeps going with his head held high. 

Albert wouldn't last the night.  Either the law would catch up to him and arrest him, or a pack of coyotes would see him as an easy meal. 

"Jesus." Arthur mumbles as Albert slinks away further.   Albert reminds Arthur of a petty child. 

"You ain't gonna survive the night, Mr. Mason!" Arthur calls.  Albert does not stop, doesn't even look back.   

"Oh I quite think I will, thank you very much." Albert throws back over his shoulder angrily. 

Arthur shrugs and sighs.

_At least I tried._

He kicks Bailey into a swift gallop, and the horse grunts as the spurs nudge him in the sides. Arthur sees Albert watching him out of the corner of his eye.  Guilt unexpectedly crashes over him in waves.  Already he finds himself missing the company of the other man, even though Albert never really spoke about anything on the whole trip.  It reminded him of how he felt after every time he met Albert to help with his photography.  Wishing he could stay longer, talk longer. 

But why?

It's Albert's decision to stay with him or leave to do his own devices.   Arthur couldn't control where the man did, what he did, how he did it.   It wasn't Arthur's decision. 

The hot Lemoyne air blasts in his face and his ears whistle with wind, Bailey's neck snaking forwards as his legs strike the ground hard enough to send gravel and dust flying.  Arthur throws a glance behind to see Albert had started walking.

To where, Arthur doesn't know. Albert has a little ways to walk to Valentine or any town he's not wanted in. A few days by walking, at least.  Arthur should've left Lemoyne to New Hanover, away from the place they were wanted, but the law would have been patrolling their borders to try and catch them escaping.  It would've been a death wish. 

Clouds, dark clouds, begin forming, a promise or threat of an incoming thunderstorm.  With how hot the day was, the thunderstorm was going to be big.   Lightning was already beginning to flicker weakly across the newborn clouds, blocking out the sun. 

Arthur only pulls Bailey back into a walk when the small field Albert left in was no bigger than a dot.  Bailey huffs and pants, shaking his head.  Arthur pats the stallions sweaty neck.

Now, the sky is completely dark, blackish grey covering the entire sky.  Thunder rumbles, dark and low, the air feeling heavier.  Bailey tosses his head nervously, nostrils flaring at the sudden change. 

"Easy boy."

Bailey nickers in response, ears flicking, body relaxing.  Lazy horse, but a sweet, brave one. 

The air crackles and feels unsettling, like something bad is about to happen.  _The calm before a storm_ , Arthur recalls Hosea telling him before a bank robbery in Mexico.  But something felt off.

Like he's being watched. 

Arthur pulls Bailey into a nearby set of bushes and trees.  The green leaves are thick and tall enough to hide both him and the large shire horse who immediately dips his head down to tear at delicate flowers and buds of grass. Arthur waits, sitting on Bailey, ready for a quick escape if necessary. 

He waits. 

And waits. 

And waits some more.

Bailey starts getting antsy as the time rolls by, already bored with eating the little growth that miraculously grew underneath the trees, stretching his neck towards the open area where there's more taller grass.  Arthur has to hold him back on a tight reign, otherwise the horse would've powered his way through the trees to eat more fresh, more greener grass. 

"Whoa Bailey." Arthur mutters, scratching the powerful stallion's neck.  Bailey snorts in irritation and falls still for only a moment before he's back at trying to get his way. Arthur sighs and tightens the reigns again, "Just a little longer."

No more than a few seconds after he says those words, people go zooming past on horses ranging in different colours.  Bailey spooks slightly back further into the bush and snorts in surprise. Arthur catches a glimpse of a brown trenchcoat flapping in the wind. 

Bounty hunters.

Four in total, they have their guns out, intent on murder. They don't stop even though Arthur was sure they heard Bailey stomping around.   

Arthur waits in a tense silence as their horses' hooves sound further and further away.  Soon, they're only muffled in the distance, a cacophony of whistles and horse hooves pounding. Arthur nudges Bailey forwards, and the horse is all too eager to comply.  He goes right for a patch of grass, stretches his head down, and begins munching away. Arthur, however, does not share Bailey's joy and stares at where the hunters ride too. He can see them faintly in the distance.

His heart drops to his stomach at the realization. 

They're heading Albert's way.

\---------------------

"Good for nothing man.  I was perfectly fine until he decided miraculously to rob the train I happened to be on." Albert snarls under his breath.  He's actually surprised at himself for how angry he is. How angry he is at the man who's saved his life many a time before.  Albert shakes his head and huffs, trudging on through bush and fallen logs.  He almost trips again (Christ that was embarrassing) when his foot catches on a broken branch fallen from a nearby oak tree. 

"I should have walked right past him when he shoved everyone off that damn train. I wouldn't be in such a right mess as this." Albert steps timidly over a stick, trying very hard not to snag his foot on its reaching wooden fingers.  "I should be in Saint Denis by now."

But, alas, he is not and is instead walking to god know where in the sweltering heat of the sun.  There are a few dark, menacing looking clouds beginning to block it out.  He can hear the telltale sign of thunder rolling in the distance.  Albert sighs, legs beginning to ache dully. 

If only he had a horse.  He misses his own whom he unfortunately had to sell to make ends meet.  Rose was a sweet horse; her gentle nicker, trusty personality, soft fur.  Albert really wishes he was riding her instead of walking. 

There's hoofbeats from behind him.  At first, he thinks its Arthur coming back to apologize or offer him a ride to the nearest town.  That would've been the nice thing to do.  But then he listens harder. The hoofbeats meld out, and are no longer one set, rather multiple. Its a group riding towards him.

Silently, Albert begins to freak out, walking a little bit faster without looking back. 

Are they bounty hunters?

Lawmen?

...Something much more worse?

"Alright, get those hands up!" A voice commands gruffly, and there's a cocking of a gun. It's followed by several more.  Albert completely freezes, and his broken camera drops to the ground at his feet.  A horse stamps the ground, and there's a thud as something hits the ground.  Spurs clicking, someone slowly approaches him. 

"I said get those hands up! Don't make me shoot ya." The man growls. Albert slowly raises his hands, fingers trembling, heart racing.  He turns around to find himself face to face with four gun barrels pointed straight at him. 

 _Oh lord_.

Albert feels as though he's about to shout for Arthur, and in fact, he's about too when a gunshot rings throughout the forest.  One of the men, a longhaired man with a bushy beard and moustache, jerks and falls, a spray of blood following soon after.  His horse rears as the whole forest comes to life with the popping of guns. 

Albert doesn't stave out long enough to see who his savour is and, instead, dashes to the nearest tree.  He hides behind the thick trunk just in time as a bullet literally whizzes by his ear, almost nicking his shoulder. 

His hearing is clouded by a sharp ringing, and he can only hear muffled shouts and gunfire.  Albert winces as the sharp noise only gets worse and presses his hands against his ears in a hope to stave it. 

It gets louder and louder and then finally, it stops dead.  And when he can hear again, it's eerily quiet. The only thing he can hear is his breathing, and heartbeat.  Albert presses against the tree, bark digging into his back, and he tries very hard to keep quiet.

He doesn't know who's come out victorious. 

"Mr. Mason?" Arthur's gruff, yet concerned,  voice drifts through the quiet scene with ease.  Immediately, Albert feels himself relaxing. 

Albert steps out from behind the tree to see Arthur standing in the middle of the chaos, guns smoking, bodies on the forest floor by his feet.  The blood practically glistens in the waning sunlight, and the metallic smell hits his nose. 

"I see you've saved my life yet again Mr. Morgan." Albert manages to say without gagging at either the smell or the sight of the corpses.  He tears his eyes away from them and focuses on Arthur's face. 

It's a welcoming sight. 

Arthur's shoulders relax at Albert's words and he puts his guns away.

"I have a knack for saving damsels in distress after all." Arthur jokes lightly, and Albert has no idea how the man can remain lighthearted after killing four men just trying to make a living. Arthur stoops down and grabs the broken camera and Albert's bag, " We should move."

Arthur moves away back towards the road where Albert can see the shine of Bailey's coat.  Albert considers making a stand against Arthur and striking out on his own again.  He considers just asking Arthur for directions to Valentine so he can get on the next train and leave to Blackwater, and hopefully catch a stagecoach going to New York.    

Something, however, wants him to follow Arthur.  He doesn't know why; maybe because this man knew how to use a gun, knew when trouble was coming, knew how to survive out in the wild.  Compared to Albert, Arthur is a hardened man who knew how to survive.  Albert did not. 

So, Albert swallows, and, albeit hesitantly, he follows.    

"You're quite right." He mumbles, and he allows himself to be pulled up onto Bailey's tall back.  The horse basically groans at having to carry two people yet again.  Arthur clucks his tongue, and the giant of a horse begins walking. 

"Thank you for saving me." Albert huffs after a few moments of silence.  

"You're welcome Mr. Mason."


	3. Catching Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day another nickel!

Arthur has never been so confused in his entire lifetime. 

Granted, there has been a few confusing times with the gang.  Dutch's plan for example, which always changed, depending on the older man’s mood. But this took the cake.

Albert Mason.  The same man whom Arthur had gone back for, stormed into a middle of a stand-off, and shot every lawman dead. The same one who he'd tried to rob just this morning. The exact same man who was giving him the silent treatment. 

Arthur, personally, could take silent treatment.  It never bothered him with anyone else.  Hell, he'd even laugh at anyone giving him the silent treatment.  But when it came from Albert Mason...it stung like an old wound reopening. 

He didn't know why.

But then again, Arthur didn't know why he went back to save the other man, didn't know why he saved Albert's ass from that train. Felt like he owed Albert, maybe, a half-assed sorry for trying to rob him which in turn had his camera destroyed.

Arthur scrubs his face tiredly.

The sleeping form of Albert Mason barely makes a sound, only the occasional whistle of his nose or the fabric rustling as he moves.  He's borrowing Arthur's mud-coloured sleeping bag; Arthur was too tired to set up the tent, and Albert didn't seem to mind sleeping on the ground.  He'd mumbled a terse _thank you_ , dropped his things, and didn't speak to Arthur for the rest of the evening.

Again, it hurt. 

Arthur nudges a log back into the sparking fire with the toe of his boot, sparks flying away, some landing near Albert's still form. Bailey stands near the light with his hoof cocked, dark bay coat shining with sweat from the afternoon's hard riding. He doesn't even flick an ear when Arthur whispers the horses' name with the promise of a treat. His favourite too.  The orange of the carrot is bright against the fire, but Bailey isn't giving him the time of day. 

Now his horse is ignoring him.

Arthur tosses the carrot over to the giant.  The horse looks at it, lowers his head and chomps it in half, but he doesn't come over to Arthur for scratches. 

"Really, boy?" Arthur teases quietly.  The horse chews slowly, swallows, and resumes watching the wide expanse of forest with half-lidded eyes. 

 Arthur sighs, leans back on the saddle, shoves his hat over his eyes, and tries to fall asleep to the sound of the crickets in the long grass. 

\----------------------

The baying of hounds woke Arthur up instead of the usual banter between Susan Grimshaw and Karen Jones. His eyes spring open immediately. 

It's dark.  Eerily dark with only a crescent moon to see, stars twinkling against the dark blanket in the sky. Bugs chirp and whistle in the nearby bushes, crickets sounding off a whole beautiful chorus.  The fire is burnt out, dying embers just clinging to life, and it ignites a dull orange glow.  

Arthur sits up slowly from against the saddle, back cracking and popping in response, hand crawling to his revolver in case there was someone near their camp. 

A crack of dried leaves underfoot, breathing, shuffling against the forest floor.  It freaks Bailey out, the horse standing straight, head up high and nostrils flared. 

Whoever's in the bushes is not doing a good job at being quiet. 

Arthur stands up one leg at a time, clicking the gun's hammer back in preparation for a gunfight.  He looks around, scanning the bush.  The first thing he notices is that Albert is no longer in the sleeping bag.  It's zipped open, corner crinkled over to expose the darker plushier inside. 

Empty. 

"Shit.  _Shit, shit, shit, shit_." Arthur makes it over to the bag in two hurried strides, kneeling down beside it.  Fresh footprints are grooved into the dirt.  It looks as though he's left recently.  Arthur swears again, and stands up quickly. 

A twig snaps somewhere beside him.  Arthur's head snaps up and his fingers tighten on his revolver.

Arthur whirls around, arm straightened so that whoever has snuck up on him has a full view of the barrel. 

The revolver points directly at Albert's forehead, brandishing his hat brim, tilting it up, and the man squeaks in surprise.

" _Mr. Morgan_!" He sounds frightened, yet angry at the same time.  Probably ready to swing his fist around and clock Arthur in the jaw.  And to be honest, Arthur wouldn't even argue against it. 

Arthur throws down the gun immediately, pushing the hammer forwards to unload it, and slaps a hand against Albert's mouth sharply. The man makes a muffled sound of dismay and tries to wriggle out of his hold with pinching fingers against Arthur's offending wrist. 

Arthur almost laughs. 

"Keep quiet, you fool!" Arthur hisses.  He gestures to the dark expanse of the forest with the barrel of his gun, the silver shining in the moonlight, body tense, "We have a few followers."

Albert's face absolutely falls to the floor, skin a ghostly pale, and Arthur swore he could hear the poor man's heart beating a mile a minute.

"How'd they find us?" Albert hisses. Arthur holsters his pistol and grabs Bailey's saddle.

"I dunno, tracking I'd reckon." Arthur jokes dryly, beckoning the mountain of a horse over with a short whistle.  Bailey sighs, hesitates, and comes sauntering over.

Albert looks to the forest, the dogs barking getting louder and louder with each passing second, and Arthur hears him audibly swallow.

"How long do we have?"

Arthur jerks upwards on Bailey's front synch, and the horse grunts.  

"Not very long, but enough time to get the hell out of here." Arthur rolls up the sleeping bag sloppily, throws it on the back of his horse. It’s messy, and he’s sure it’ll fall apart once they start riding.

Albert shoves his broken camera pieces into Arthur’s already stuffed saddlebag. He has his own dulled-brown bag by his side, handle wedged in the crook of his elbow. 

Arthur hops on after checking the front synch one last time, settling into the worn out seat. He holds out his hand for Albert to take, and the other man hesitates for only a moment before clasping Arthur's arm. 

After a second of making sure Albert was settled on the Bailey's back, Arthur coaxes the stallion into a slow walk with a gentle nudge of his heels. He doesn’t press the horse into a gallop; the sound of his heavy hooves thudding against the ground could alert whoever and whatever was tracking them.  Bailey doesn't seem too sad at walking.  His head hangs lazily between his shoulders, flicking an ear occasionally at the sound of a yip or bark.

They find a well-worn deer path and Arthur turns Bailey onto it.  The path is enshrouded in darkness, with only a sliver of moonlight here and there as their guiding light.  Thick bush and tall trees surround each side, providing ample enough cover from prying eyes.  

There's a hum in the air, a hum of electricity, tense, easily broken with a single whispered word. Albert's breath could be heard just over the faint barking. He sounds laboured almost, as though he’s trying to keep quiet. 

"You okay back there?" Arthur dares to speak. It’s quiet and he’s surprised Albert hears. The man’s fingers tighten around Arthur's waist in response.  They must have been hovering just over his clothes, he didn't feel them before. 

"Peachy." Albert breathes, daring a glance over his shoulder. Those fingers leave again, warmth from where they once were.  He doesn't return them, and instead holds onto the back of the saddle. 

Now it's silent, _and_ awkward.

Arthur doesn't dare clear his throat for fear of attracting unwanted attention, so he settles on scanning the bushes for any sort of danger. 

A gopher nibbling away at a blade of grass near the path.   

A Jackrabbit shooting out of bushes (scaring Albert into gripping Arthur's waist again, but only for a moment) and weaving around Bailey's large hooves.

An owl hooting from somewhere above them, its piercing yellow eyes tracking the unlikely trio as they move along. 

Bushes rustling in the slight breeze. 

The tall trees looming over them. 

Bailey is but a midget compared to the tall oaks, towering pines. They cast dark shadows from the crescent moon hanging high in the sky, illuminating puddles of water, outlining any bush in their way.  

Bailey is the only one that didn't seem on edge in the darkness.  He plods along as though this was any other ride, snorting bugs from his nostrils, swishing his tail at the odd fly.   

Above the crickets and the odd call of a deer, the barks of the dogs fade gently away.  There's shouting, angry shouting, and horse whinnies, though nobody comes shooting out of the bush towards them.  It makes Arthur relax a little bit, letting his hand grip the leather reigns loosely, letting his other fall from the hilt of his pistol. 

Albert also seems to relax, though Arthur doesn't feel any physical sign of it.  The saddle from where Albert was death-gripping it stops shaking like a leaf on an autumn day. 

They don’t talk. It feels as though any word at the moment will snowball into something much more dangerous. 

Arthur focuses on the space between Bailey’s ears and gives nudges whenever the horse seems to slow down.  The eerie sounds the forest gives off by itself is unnerving itself, but when one has bounty hunters literally on their tail, it's even more terrifying. 

It’s nerve-racking when travelling in the dark, especially since nobody knows what’s lurking in the shadows. 

For all Arthur knows, bounty hunters could be watching them, waiting for the moment they let their guard down to pounce. He’d be fine by himself: he’d only have to worry about keeping his own skin safe. 

But now, he has Albert to worry about on top of not getting captured and or killed. 

"If you don't mind me asking, where are we going?" Albert's voice is small, a hint of fear edging the outline.  Arthur looks at him from over his shoulder and notices Albert looking frantically into each side of the bush. 

"Across the border, maybe. If we get that far." He says as quietly and gently as he possibly can.  To be frank, it comes out gruffly, rough and hard to understand and Arthur vows to never speak like that ever again. 

Albert tilts his head back, just enough that Arthur can see him roll his eyes. Though he does not say anything, it looks as though he wants to. 

The path comes to an end in a clearing filled with tall grass and thick shrubbery. He stops Bailey just at the edge of the clearing. The horse snorts in confusion and paws the ground, before he lowers his head to pick at grass.  Albert leans forwards until his chest is nearly flush against Arthur's back, and looks past his shoulder.

Arthur doesn't trust it. Feels like a trap. 

"Why have we stopped?" Albert asks in a quiet voice.  Bailey flicks his tail, kicks out at a bug swarming his stomach, stomping his hoof. 

Arthur scans the clearing itself.  He does not answer. 

The barking has completely stopped.  They are far enough away that they would be able to hear the distant yips of the hounds, far enough away to still hear the bounty hunters thundering through their camp. 

Something's wrong. 

The birds have gone silent, the whole forest seems dead, though the air seems strangely tense.  As though it would snap at the slightest of sound and cause all hell to break loose.  Bailey even stops eating and lifts his head, a few grass blades sticking out of his mouth. 

Very uncharacteristic for Bailey. 

Albert is the only one that hasn't noticed the change in atmosphere.  He shifts so he leans out more to the side.

"What's the matter?"

Arthur grabs his revolver from his belt, clicks the hammer back all slow-like, and swallows. He peers harder into the treeline.  A flash of silver, or what looks to be that, catches his eye behind a tree.  Something other than Bailey snorts. 

A shush.

A dog faintly growling.

"We're turning around." He whispers hoarsely, quickly.  Albert sits back on Bailey's rump, eyebrows crunched together in confusion.  Arthur turns Bailey's head to the side, and the giant follows without any hesitation, plodding back the way they came. 

Bailey lays his ears back and starts to trot, the whites of his eyes showing.  Arthur glances back towards the clearing, hoping the hunters didn't see them, hoping the hunters weren't following them. 

A lone bounty hunter with a mousy look about him rides a palomino horse, striding out of the bushes, the leaves rustling against the horse’s legs. He calmly follows them, hat tipped down so Arthur cannot see his face. He whistles in a low tone under his breath, and Arthur wonders if it’s a signal. 

Arthur turns back around in his seat, kicking Bailey into an even faster trot.  Albert seems to sense the urgency and danger of the situation, looks back, and sees the man following them.

"Oh boy." Albert says under his breath, sounding panicked.  Arthur grips both the gun and Bailey's reigns tighter.  They could still lose the bounty hunters in the twists and turns of the dark forest and try to hide in the darkness. 

Albert seems to forget he's mad at Arthur for a second; those nimble fingers clutch Arthur's waist. They shake and tremble, and Arthur wonders how the man hasn't passed out yet. 

"We're going to die, aren't we Mr. Morgan..." Albert mumbles in despair under his breath.  Arthur checks to be sure the bounty hunter is still following (he's now joined by five others) and kicks Bailey into an even quicker, bouncier trot.  The hunters do the same. 

"If only, _if only_ , you hadn't killed those men."

"What are you goin' on about?" Arthur hisses, turning Bailey to the right, through bush and past thick tree trunks.  Albert scoffs a little too loudly for Arthur's liking. 

"The train robbery, or have you forgotten about it already? When you killed that innocent guard who, may I remind you, was just doing his job, and then you went on to kill those lawmen as though they were nothing more than...than... _dogs_ to be put down on the street." Albert snarls.  It's the first time Arthur's ever seen Albert _this_ angry.

"Mr. Mason, maybe we can do this _after,_ when there ain't bounty hunters gearing to kill us." Arthur says through gritted teeth, trying to keep it quiet.  The bounty hunters are still trailing after them, some trying to look inconspicuous, some even going as far as lighting a cigarette. 

Arthur knew this tactic like the back of his hand.  Follow, wait, attack.  Follow them, wait for them to drop their guard (even if it's for a second), and attack with blazing guns. 

He should know. He’s done it before. 

"Oh and when will it be an appropriate time? With how trigger-happy you've been, we'll never get to address the situation.  _The elephant in the room_." 

Bailey tosses his head, as though he were agreeing with Albert.  Those heavy hooves fill an uncomfortable silence, only for a moment. That, and the distant puffs of the very few lawmen smoking their cigars. 

"With the plethora of trouble you've gotten _me_ into, I'll never be able to roam a free man."

"There ain't a _plethora-_ " Arthur drawls plethora off his tongue, and it comes out as _plethora_ instead, "-This is just...business."

 _Business_ is one thing.  Robbing trains, taking money from people, all of it was just business in his eyes.  Hell, it's business in every outlaw's eyes.  Money equates to food and shelter, another day of surviving. 

" _Business_ -"

Apparently, Albert didn't agree with Arthur. 

"- _Business_ is not killing innocent men, and robbing innocent people.  Far from it, business does not transform into something as deadly as murdering guards doing their jobs." Albert's voice is growing with each word, louder and louder until he's no longer caring about being quiet.

The lead bounty hunter is catching up now, cigarette long since thrown off the back of his horse.  He's staring quite intently at them, the whites of his eyes reflecting against what little light pours through the canopy of branches and leaves above their heads.

Arthur reaches around just as Albert is going on about _What real business_ is like, grabs his arm in a pinching hold, yanks Albert's face towards his own.  The man yelps in an undignified way as he lurches forwards, face flushing a bright angry red. 

"I appreciate the life lesson Mr. Mason, but right now we have some fairly angry people following us."

Realization dawns on Albert right then and there, and that angry blush fades away into the pale of his skin.  His eyes flicker for a moment between Arthur's face and gun, probably wondering if he's about to use it. 

"Take my advice; keep all those words about _killin_ and _robbin_ and _business_ at the back of your head, so that when we get out of this... _if_ we get out of this-"

Albert's face drops just as Arthur lets his arm go. 

"-You can continue yelling at me."

Arthur jabs Bailey in the sides, and the horse jumps forwards into a fast gallop.  He pounds down the trail at considerable speed, so much so that Albert clutches Arthur's sleeve, lurching backwards, boots in the air, and nearly yanks both of them off the side. 

One of the men behind them shouts in sharp surprise. 

"Shit! They're running!"

The combination of the slight breeze and Bailey's gait creates such a strong wind that Arthur needs to hang onto his hat to prevent it from blowing off. 

Bailey's ears lay back when the bounty hunters give chase, their own horses whinnying in surprise; their hooves can barely be heard over Bailey's thudding ones. 

"They're chasing!" Albert shouts over the gusting wind, clutching his own hat with a white-knuckled hand, the other barely gripping onto the back of the saddle seat. If he fell off now, Arthur is sure it would be the end of Mr. Albert Mason. 

"I know, I know! Just hang on!" Arthur aims his revolver back towards the men. Albert ducks with a squeak of shock just as Arthur fires his first shot.  He misses, causing the nearest bounty hunter to dodge away from the bullet.  

They whip out their own guns, rifles, shotguns, pistols, and there's a moment of nothing. 

Then, they open fire.

Sharp pops, whistles, fill the night air. Arthur bends forwards to avoid getting hit. Albert is holding Arthur's shirt in fists, just under his ribcage, and pressed flush against his back.  

Bullets pepper the trees, hit the ground and cause dust to swirl up.  Bailey jumps from them, eyes wide in alarm when one bullet whizzes past his legs. 

"Jesus!" Arthur swears as he twirls around again, squeezing one eye shut.  He focuses on the mousy man riding the palomino and shoots him in the chest; the man gurgles and falls, rolls, and stops somewhere in the bushes. 

There’s four left. Four left. 

Arthur keeps shooting. He prays that Bailey picks a decent path, prays the horse doesn’t trip and fall. 

He misses each shot, and soon, his gun dry fires, the hammer snapping up. He swears, hunches over the gun, and tries to reload without dropping any bullets. Bailey’s fear-fuelled gait doesn’t help. 

Suddenly, just as he twirls the chamber and closes it up with a flick of his wrist, there’s the sound of a bullet hitting flesh.

Bailey whinnies, his back end buckling. Then, the horse is off, back arching, neck dipping, and hooves kicking out behind them. 

Albert’s the first to fall; he lands heavily on the dusty path, on his back, rolls onto his side with his arms scrambling up to protect his head. 

Arthur curses and squeezes his legs against the giant's side, yanks the reigns up, tries to keep Bailey's head from dropping.  But alas, it’s no use. The horse is dead set on bucking until Arthur gets off. The horse angles into the trees, bushes breaking under his massive size and Arthur ducks to avoid getting knocked off by branches. 

His mind is a flurry of thoughts, mainly if Albert’s okay, if the hunters are just watching this all happen, if they’re taking aim and about to shoot a second time. Then his mind goes blank when, suddenly, he doesn't feel a saddle between his legs. 

“ _Shit_!” 

He’s airborne.  It’s over in a split second, a rather comical split second, he’s in the air, and then he lands _hard_ on his shoulder blades.  His waist bends over his head, stays like that for a few moments before his legs slam into the ground below.  There's stars shooting across his closed eyelids, his heart flutters in his ribcage, and his shoulders scream bloody murder.   

Arthur groans, and peels his eyes open one at a time, branches and rustling leaves outlined black against the crescent moon.  He lays there for a moment, dazed, and hacking, coughing. The wind knocked out of him, vision swirling like alcohol in water, he sees Bailey galloping, _limping_ , away into the thick of trees. 

A stream of red dribbles down his left leg, just in the meat of his thigh. Then he's disappeared through berry bush and low hanging tree branches. 

“You bastards shot my horse.” Arthur hacks out, rolling onto his stomach. His head swims, his shoulders ache something fierce, adrenaline worn off.  The trees double in his vision, and the path barely visible through bush splits into two. 

“Mr. Morgan!” The usually quiet, polite voice is now filled with fresh fear, a wild fear. It doesn't sound good on him at all, Arthur thinks groggily. 

Arthur pushes himself up onto his hands, knees pressed into the soggy ground, palms slipping on wet leaves and moss, and he peers through the line of shrubbery shielding him from the path. The hunters are still on their horses, but one dismounts and marches over to Albert's heaving form.  He has an arm up as though he's protecting himself from a foreseen blow.  The man roughly grabs his arm and shoves him onto his front.

“He ain’t done nothin.” Arthur croaks as though he has a dry throat, spits a bloody wad of saliva from his mouth; he's pretty certain he bit his tongue with the way it stings and aches.

The hunters don’t hear him speak. 

The one who manhandled Albert hauls his struggling form up onto a striking bay horse, a snip of white on its muzzle. Albert’s hands are behind his back, bound with ragged looking rope. His legs are crossed over each other, the same rope keeping Albert from trying to run off. 

“Look for the other one!” A clean-shaven man barks as he swings his leg over the bay’s back.  Albert looks frantically back and forth through the bushes, combing them with his eyes, probably trying to find Arthur. 

“I haven’t done anything, sir! You have the wrong man!” Albert’s cry is rewarded with a punch to the temple.  He yelps, jerks his head, dust caked hair coming undone from his slicked back look and the strands fall into his face. 

"Yeah yeah, tell it to the chief." The man growls.  He nods his head over to where Bailey disappeared through the bushes as he roughly yanks the bay's head around, "Check over there first. Don't come back until you have him. As for you," The man looks down to Albert, "You're coming with me."

The man kicks the bay hard in the guts, and all three of them take off down the path right past where Arthur's laying.  Arthur locks eyes with Albert, and the man looks as though he's about to pass out.  In the split-second they ride past, Arthur spots a purple bruise sprawling out from his temple, right where the man hit him. 

Then, they're gone in the blink of an eye, the hooves of the bay pounding down the trail fade away into the sounds of the night. 

"Jesus." Arthur whispers, spits out more blood, and slowly gets onto his feet in a crouched position. His knees pop and his back aches at the hunched movement. He makes his way over to a tree, placing each foot deliberately and with care. He doesn't need a gunfight right now. 

Arthur presses himself against the hard, rough bark, standing straight up slowly, head just peeking out enough that he can see the remaining three hunters dismounting their horses.  

"You heard him. Geoff, look over where that horse went, and Gerome, go to that side.  I'll walk down the path and see what I can find."

Arthur swallows, hand travelling down to his sheathed knife.  He could get rid of the bushy bearded man named Geoff and quietly try to find Bailey.  The spot where Bailey disappeared to has broken branches, flattened bushes, and stomped grass.  It wouldn't be too hard to find the stallion with how much of a mess there is. 

Or...sneak away completely without killing anyone. 

Arthur ran a hand down his face, knife half out of its casing.  The small amount of metal that shows through glints in the light filtering through the leaves, and Arthur considers putting it back in.

What would Albert want?

 _No one dying,_ Arthur thinks with a repressed sigh.  He slides the knife back into it's casing with a soft  _click_ and straightens his sore back against the tree trunk. 

_No killing_

Arthur cracks his knuckles. He could do that.


	4. Jailtime and Attempt Escapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jail time my dudes

Albert did not expect his trip to take such a deadly turn.  Granted, he had been a fool photographing alligators, snakes, wolves, every dangerous animal that could've possibly eaten him at any turn.  He almost _literally_ got eaten by wolves until Arthur came in on his monstrous horse Bailey and saved him from his doom. 

Albert had been lucky then, Arthur showing up at such the oddest times to save his life, like the man knew Albert was going to be in trouble mere minutes after they met.  Albert considered the man his guardian angel, his savior, knight in shining armor, always there and saving him, _him_ the _damsel in distress_.

Quite a shocker for most people when Albert told them about his bold project. They were appalled, usually shocked at how a blunderer like him has not managed to die in the maw of some great animal, or robbed from by notorious gangs that prowled the areas. 

One of those notorious gangs Arthur supposedly belonged too. 

How could he be so blind? So...so stupid? It was quite obvious with the way Arthur handled those wolves with an experience unlike any hunter; three shots was all it took to kill three mighty beasts.  Three bullets through each skull, expertly done, one shot kill.  Maybe it was his own fear blinding him, his own ignorance casting a shadow over such a detail.  He quite liked the man and didn't even stop to think where he learned such skills, didn't even bother to ask about his past. 

Didn't want to lose the only _friendship_ he'd gained in this land. 

More of a one-sided friendship, Albert supposed, though if that were the case, why would Arthur show up mere minutes before an animal decided Albert were to be its next meal?

Albert sighs, and rubs his face tiredly, minding to avoid his nose. It burns from a harsh fist to the face, a very rude way to shut him up.  His throat is hoarse, voice nearly lost from shouting and proclaiming his innocence. From trying to get them to see his reasoning, tried to get them to see his way. 

“I was merely a _passenger_ on that _godforsaken_ train!” He had shouted, no, _screamed_ in desperation at the top of his lungs as he struggled in the guards strong hold. Nearly got away too, though those damn ropes kept him bound until the guards hauled him up again.  Pompous bystanders walking by had looked on him with disgust, most rolling their eyes at how he was acting, others even whispering amongst themselves. 

Thank goodness nobody had recognized him. 

Only mere seconds later they shoved him in a dank cell. _Furthest_ away from freedom. _Furthest_ from the door. 

Albert blinks, sighs, his gaze filled with the closed black metal top of his cell, dots of cobwebs and spiders sprinkled along like stars.  The bed beneath him is stained with unknown fluids, springs rusty and old, screeching every time he went to shift. Albert, had nearly gagged in disgust at the sight of the bed, but decided it was better than sitting on the even dirtier floor.  Warm sunlight floods in through the slitted bars making up his prison, casting a nice warmth over Albert, though his skin prickles with the conflicting cold, prickles with nerves. Albert knows he's wound tight with the way he scans the surrounding jail, tries to pinpoint anything that could be a danger. 

There's a shine of a gun, though it's attached to the Chief's hip.

Sounds of people laughing and talking from outside the main door. 

Boots scuffling as guards walk to and from their posts outside.

Albert stills feels as though he's being watched.  He taps his fingertips together at an absurd speed, counts the bugs on the ceiling, blows lightly at a dust bunny floating gently by, anything to keep his mind off the fact he's in jail with possibly dangerous people, possibly being watched.   There are three others, all in different cells, all looking like they _belonged_ in prison. 

The one across from him has dirty blonde hair, greasy, flat against his skull, parts looking as though they'd been ripped out.  The man's eyes are crazy, bloodshot, a dull brown that held no life.  He's chewing his nails to nubs, eyeing everything with a suspicious gaze, though he mainly glares at the Chief with a look of murder. 

Albert tries to keep from meeting the man's psychotic eyes. He doesn't need an enemy in a place such as this.

There's another man beside Crazy Blonde who looks a bit more posh; A tattered black suit, a wilted tie poking out from his neck, spotty shoes, a dying rose in his breast pocket.  He holds his head up high, glares at the Chief every so often, sneers without saying a word, before he dips his head back down to play with his fingers. 

Albert has a woman beside him in the next cell, though she has her back turned to him.  Her hair is a deep, jet black that falls over her shoulders, stops mid-back. She has a petite build, a pink ruffled dress on, though there's spots of dirt, spots of torn cloth. There's blood splattered on the hem of the dress, looking as though she stomped something to death. 

Thank god his bed isn't on the side she's on. 

Albert sighs through his nose, puts a hand on his forehead.  When did his life go so terribly wrong? So wrong in fact that he ended up going to jail for a crime he _didn't even_ do.

When he decided to take the train back to New York? When he met Arthur? When he got to New Hanover and started photographing?

There's a heavy breathing, a gurgle that sounds like someone looking to spit tobacco, a loud _ping_  as it hits a metal cup. It’s sharp, rings throughout the quiet jail. Albert nearly jumps at the sound, heart beginning it's marathon again in his chest. 

Albert's rapid breathing and the squeaks of bedsprings when someone shifts fill the deadly-quiet jail room. The scratching of the Chiefs pen against paper joins in with the subtle sounds. He's writing reports, hand constantly moving as he writes lines upon lines of information.  He's even not paying attention to his prisoners, except for the odd glance.

It leaves Albert to his fears, his traitorous mind.

He had expected Arthur to appear a few hours after he'd been thrown in his cell; either captured or freeing Albert.  But there wasn't any sign of the outlaw.  Every shadow that passed by the door, every squeak of a shoe, hooves of a horse clopping along the cobblestone path just outside...it had Albert's heart jump to his throat; he was always relieved... until nobody came through the giant oak door. 

Very unlike the man, but Albert supposed the behavior was warranted.  He did not act as though he were grateful for Arthur saving his life, on _multiple_ occasions. 

_Was Arthur okay?_

That single thought bounced around his skull, reared its ugly head every so often, just to torment Albert into worrying about the man. Even without the wretched thought...he was still _extremely_ scared. 

Worried that Arthur might've been killed right after he'd been captured; either from the fall off of Bailey or a shot to the head.   Killed would be very saddening. It made Albert's chest pang sharply, made a lump form slowly in his throat.  Easy to swallow down, though Albert felt it coming back no matter.   

Why? 

Albert supposed he’d grown used to the man every time he saw him. His chest would get fuzzy, head fluffy with cotton. He would try not to embarrass himself in front of the cowboy, but that mentality was really short-lived when an animal decided to work against Albert.   

Now, when Albert thought back to his behavior towards Arthur over the past day, he winces mentally,

 _I suppose...I was a little harsh_ , Albert thinks, sighs again more angrily, and rubs his head, fingers catching in his gnarled hair. 

He was so... _conflicted._ One part of him sided with Arthur, that in order to survive those people needed to be gunned down. Another part disagreed completely. 

They both warred inside his brain, throwing points and logic towards one another. 

_It wouldn’t have worked!_

_But talking it out would’ve!_

Albert didn’t know how much sleep he’d get that night with how buzzed his mind was.

There was an underlying feeling of understanding for Arthur’s ways; it was, after all, eat or be eaten in this world. Kill or be killed.  No matter how angry he felt towards Arthur...he could realize the man's motive. His _reason_. 

But on the other hand there was the matter of playing god; deciding who would die, all because it was wrong place wrong time for them. A matter that Albert, in the past, didn't think Arthur participated in. 

Though no matter how absurd, how gruesome it seemed...Albert could understand. Didn’t make him any less angry, just a _little_ more empathetic towards the situation. 

A sort of empathy he’d have to convey to Arthur. 

 _If_ he ever saw the man again. 

“God. What’s happened to the world?” Albert grumbles under his breath, resting his head in his hands, trying to calm the angry storm raging in his head. 

"Psst! Hey!" A voice hisses through the silence, breaking the tense silence, breaking Albert's thoughts.  He jumps, the rusty bed squeaking at the movement, creating an echo in the quiet prison. It elicits a sharp shush from the Chief. He looks sharply to his right, calming his beating heart with a hand splayed across his chest. 

It's the greasy haired blonde man. He's grasping the metal bars with dirtied hands, fingernails chipping and broken. Gnarled and yellow. 

Albert tries not to make a face.

"Whatcha in for?" The man asks in a secretive tone, casting a sneaking glance to the Police Chief.  The Chief is now reading a newspaper with his feet propped on the desk, clearing his throat with gurgly sounds. The stack of paper he'd been writing on is piled on the desk, pen resting on top.   

Albert swallows, looks back to the man, who's smiling with yellowed teeth exposed in a sort of manic way that leaves worms of discomfort crawling up his spine. 

"A crime I did not do." He hisses back, licks his lips, draws a hand down his forehead before looking the man in the eye,  "I was merely a witness to the crime. I did not participate, but does anyone care to listen to my side of the story? _No._ " Albert hits his head softly against the back of his cell, "They do not even give me the time of day."

The trip from that accursed forest took a few hours for both Albert and his captor to arrive in Saint Denis. The newborn sunshine had glinted off the many windows of the city, shadows casting over everything in dark alleys, making it seem dank and dark. A mood damper for Albert, who'd had high hopes of a rescue.  He'd been handled quite roughly off the back of the horse, paid for, and immediately he was thrown into the furthest cell away from the door. 

Albert rubs his wrists subconsciously.  Those ropes were very tight, so tight they rubbed the skin away into a dark red tone.  His jaw hurt from the cloth that'd been tied to his mouth. _To shut him up,_ the hunter had explained to the Police Chief, who didn't even bat an eye as he continued to count out bills from his hand. 

A smirk stretches across the blonde man's face. A little too wide for Albert's liking, and he shifts a little further away from the man.  

"We're all in here for a crime we _didn't do_.  There ain't no _proven until innocent_."

"Innocent until _proven_ guilty." Albert corrects in a grumbled tone, leaning back against the bars hugging his bed. He pinches the bridge of his nose, hangs his head, " _I should be on the way to New York by now_."

"There ain't nothing like that down here friend.  _Innocent until proven guilty_ my ass. My advice is this...don't trust nobody here." The man looks to the other two; Albert can see that the fancy man has closed his eyes, and the woman is now laying down with her hands folded across her chest, "They'll use ya to escape." The man shoves his hand out of the jail cell as if he was expecting Albert to magically pop through his prison and shake it, "Name's Emmet by the way"

Albert looks at him from the corner of his eye, and the man retracts his arm with a slight shrug.

"Sorry bout that, forget that I'm even in here sometimes."

Emmet sounds sorrowful as he speaks, though Albert doesn't think it's genuine. A false genuine, like he's tempting Albert into some sort of unseen trap. 

_Where's Arthur when you need him..._

The man suddenly touches his forehead lightly with a dirty, broken fingernail, "Got somethin wrong with my head.  _Sick,_ they tell me, but..."  

"Sick?" Albert questions.  Sure, the man is pale and his face is sunken in just a tad, but he's not skinny or even remotely sickly looking. 

"Yeah, sick in my noggin. Can't help it really, ain't my fault I killed those people....the voices are very _very_ relentless." Then Emmet snickers in a high pitched tone, waves his hand and slinks back into the darkness of his cell. His eyes glint as he sits down on his own bed, leans against the metal unforgiving bars just as Albert's doing. He continues snickering to himself, waves around wildly with his hands.

... _Alright_.  He's in a jail with a known murderer, nonetheless _right_ across from him.  Albert watches the man warily, feels downright uncomfortable about his situation.

Emmet does not seem to be looking to him as he gestures to an unseen person. It seems the conversation, however short it was, is no longer active, at least not active with Albert anymore. 

Albert leans back against the bars, hands cupping his head.

_What am I going to do?_

\------- ------- ------- -------

" _Wake up_!" The Chief's harsh voice shouts, and then a loud bang follows as though someone struck his cell hard.  Albert jolts up from his slouched position against the cell wall. He throws his hands up in front of his face, kicking himself up into a sitting position. 

"I'm awake, I'm awake!" Albert cries, heart pounding in his ears, hands shaking, eyes bleary from sleep. 

_When did I fall asleep?_

Albert rubs his eyes with the palm of his hands. It wasn't at all a surprise he'd fallen asleep. He'd been awake all night on the back of a horse with a fear-induced adrenaline rush.  

Albert shakes his head, and looks to the source, brain foggy. The Chief is standing in front of Emmet's cell with his hands on his hips, hands  _d_ _angerously_ close to the gun hanging from his belt. 

Emmet is wide awake, smiling in a sick way, hands clenching and unclenching into fists, but he lays lax on his bed.   Kicks his feet as though he were a child waiting for a surprise.   

"You think you have the privilege to sleep boy? After what you did?"

"I reckon so.  Ain't got nothing better to do." Emmet cackles so loud it alerts the other two prisoners. The woman beside Albert whirls around to see what's going on, her eyes wide and hands clutching her bed.  She's got ruby red lipstick, smeared on her face, a healing bruise over one cheekbone.  Her olive eyes are caked heavily in makeup, skin a ghostly pale. 

"Christ, sir!" The fancy man curses quite loudly at the Chief, hand pressed against his chest. The Police Chief glares at him, though he turns his attention back to Emmet. He's grinning like this is some sort of sick game. 

Albert swallows, gulps more like, and presses himself further away from the pair.  The woman smiles just as gleefully as Emmet, claps her hands together, makes Albert jump again, starting up his fever-like shivering.  A sense of panic washes over him as the woman bangs against her cell, and he jumps at the sudden sound. 

"Oh what fun! What delicious fun!" She cackles, throwing her head back, pearly white teeth glinting in the sunlight.  She claps again.

That's when Albert realizes that he may be the only sane person in this jail house. 

 _The_ _keys,_ something whispers in Albert's mind.  They look _oh so_ promising, _r_ _ipe_ for the taking. The Chief isn't even paying attention to the other three prisoners. Albert wipes his sweaty palms against the front of his pants, stomach back-flipping, making him very _very_  nauseated. 

He gathers himself up, builds his courage up, tries to keep it from crumbling down as hurries off the bed as quietly as he can. He tries not to make the springs squeak, tries to keep his boots from thudding too loudly against the stone floor when he literally tiptoes across his small prison to the barred door.  Albert's heart begins thudding again, nerves pouring through his veins, fingers shaking as he reaches through the bars.  

The keys are close to his hand.  _Tantalizingly_ close.

"You killed three people." The Chief snarls, taking a step back.  _Perfect_. 

Albert cannot believe he's about to do this.  Cannot believe he's about to break out of jail _without_ Arthur's help. It's exhilarating, though that feeling is overlooked with a much stronger sense of terror. 

A small part wishes that Arthur were there to see what Albert was about to accomplish.  

_I'm really gonna do it._

"So?" Emmet smiles with a little too much teeth, though there is malice hidden under the sickly-sweet tone.  It makes Albert's skin positively crawl, but he does not waver in his task. 

Albert wiggles his fingers, trying to get an inch forwards.  The keys are right there, the tips of his fingers just grazing the keys lightly, the metal cold against his skin. 

Emmet opens his mouth as though he's going to say something, and then his eyes flick to Albert for just a moment.  It's a _long_ moment.

Albert freezes, pauses with his fingers just touching the keys lightly, heart absolutely dropping to the ground before it rushes back up to pound against his ribcage. He goes to rush back to the bed, waits for Emmet to start yelling to the Chief, waits to get caught.  It seems the other two want Albert to grab the keys; they remain a deadly-silent that should be ringing alarm bells in the Chief's head. 

The shouting never comes. Emmet gives a slight, almost non-existent nod to Albert, and looks back up to the Chief. He smiles again, shows broken, chipping teeth. 

"No offense _Chief_ , but how many have you killed? In the name of justice?"

Albert _nearly_ sighs in relief, nearly starts crying. He's not going to die.

The Chief chuckles down to Emmet, shaking his head slightly.  Emmet moves off the bed with a gracefulness and deadly speed Albert never expected a man of his standard to have.  It makes the Chief stiffen, though he does not move from his place, standing his ground. He knows he's safe; the prisoner is, after all, behind bars.   

"You're just like us, though you have a reason for every time you fire that gun." Emmet sneers with a courage Albert wishes he had. The man holds his head up high, curls his nose, and somehow that makes the man seem a little more sane.  A little more human. 

The Chief sighs through his clenched teeth, shakes his head slightly like an angry mother: "You're getting rather annoying."

The accusation from Emmet is a good distraction, so much so that the Chief is enshrouded entirely in the argument. 

 _Thank you kindly Emmet_.

Albert presses himself further into the bars, using his other hand to gain some sort of leverage his knees are not giving him. The metal jingles quietly like wind chimes, and Albert freezes, breath caught in his throat. He's sure he's caught, sure that the Chief heard him.

Nope.

"Y'know, I'm glad you're hanging tomorrow. I'm sure you'll attract a big crowd." The man traces a noose in the air, and the movement makes Emmet's eyes flash with fear. 

Albert, however, cannot get close enough to wrap even his pinky finger around the set of keys. They're taunting him.  Every time he feels close enough, they seem to move further away.

The Police Chief spits onto the ground, nearly hitting Emmet's feet, and moves away with a sound of disgust. He steps back enough that Albert could indeed grab the keys.  But his hands are sweaty and the keys were all jumbled together making it so he couldn't get a good grip, nevertheless give a good yank. 

_No no no no-_

In a last desperate attempt, Albert lurches as far as he can go, knees numb against the cold stone floor.  He indeed does go further, but the Chief is too far away for Albert to grab the keys.

The Chief walks seemingly without a care in the world, whistling a cheery tune as he plops down on his desk.  He takes a cigar from one of the drawers, lights it, and leans back in his chair.   

Albert, however, is a little less cheery, left empty-handed, lets his hand drop to the floor. The back of his hand bursts with cold from the floor, but he does not move. He grits his teeth, swears under his breath, lets go of the bar he'd been holding onto.  The floor is a shocking temperature when he sits back, a lump of despair forming in his throat. 

_Damnit._

"Did ya get it?" Emmet asks in a hissy voice, watching the Chief walk back to his desk.  The keys still remain on the back of his belt, jingling and clinking together. _Taunting_.

"No." Albert groans.  He steps away from the cell door and sits on the bed again, hangs his head, sighing in defeat, "No I did not."


End file.
